


le langue de l'amour

by clique_sinnxr



Series: Le Langue de L'Amour [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clique_sinnxr/pseuds/clique_sinnxr
Summary: Prompt: Ryan writes anonymous poems in the school's literary magazine. Brendon falls in love with his words and wants to know the true identity of "G.R."





	1. discovery

**Author's Note:**

> How are you liking this so far? Should I continue it? Comments would be appreciated. Also, I am now taking fic requests, so just let me know if you want me to write a fic for any ideas you may have.
> 
> Also I will now be offering to proofread and/or beta-read others' works. If you are interested just message me.

(Brendon POV)

I remember the first time I discovered the writing of G.R. I had just picked up a copy of my school’s literary magazine. Nothing really stood out as I was flipping through the pages. Another letter to a dead grandparent. Another poem about water, or nature, or something like that. Another murder mystery. Then I flipped to the last page. Hidden in a corner, almost as if it wasn’t supposed to be there, as if it shouldn’t have made the print. A little blurb, about five sentences long.

“Five Letters, by G.R.

The vise that grips me

I utter in the mirror

Two tentative words

And never again

Will I say those five letters”

Everything else on that page was too big. Almost as if they were trying to drown out the little poem with sharp lines and neon colors and drawings of puppies and kittens and flowers. But it resonated with me. What had he been trying to say? No, I thought I knew exactly what he had been saying. This was not a foreign idea to me. It was almost as if I knew exactly what was going on in his mind--as if I had experienced it myself. Two words in the mirror, shying away from myself, from anyone who dared to hear. “I’m gay.” And never would I utter those words to anyone else.

\----

I felt he knew me, G.R. I followed his work carefully, month after month, reading his stories, poems, feeling what he was saying. I needed to know him.

\----

I was clutching the paper tightly in my hand, trying not to drop the paper. Or the several copies of sheet music balanced precariously in my arms. 

“What’s up, bro?” It was Jon, slapping a hand on my back, causing me to nearly lose my balance. He catches sight of what I’m holding and grins sagely at me. “Ah. Le magazine literary.”

“That’s literally not how French works, Jon. And I’m in German.”

“Whatever. Are you any closer to finding out who G.R. is?” We continued to walk to the theater for choir, Jon offering to carry one of my bags so I don’t fall over.

“No. But have you read his latest work?” It was beautiful. I thought the words he used were more for the way they sounded together, I don’t know, like  _ The Jabberwocky. _ But as I read the words over and over to myself in my head, certain phrases stuck out. That maybe held his true meaning. “Virtuous, promiscuous, façade.”

“You know who I think you would like? Spencer says his friend is also addicted to reading. Or words in general. I think it’s an issue.” Jon mentioned.

“Oooh, who’s Spencer?” I asked. He just slapped me in the face in response. “Ouch,” I deadpanned as we walked into the room.

\---

A shy wave greeted me when I opened the door. A boy, probably our age, was seated in the soft piano bench, strumming a guitar contemplatively. As soon as he heard the tell-tale creak as the hinges squeaked open, he glanced up, paused to scribble something down quickly in his notebook and mumbled, “Hello,” almost apologetically. And looked down almost as quickly as he had looked up.

As the class began to fill in, the choir teacher apparently had a poorly rehearsed announcement to make. “Boys, settle down,” she whisper-screamed, obviously frazzled. “This is Ryan.” The boy with the guitar waved again. “He is going to be managing the sound for the solo performances next week. If you don’t have a background track ready to go, he can play for you. Guitar, piano, keyboard, anything along those lines. You have this entire class period to pick out a song and practice it a few times.” She made a shooing gesture with her hands and the whole class scattered.

Ryan looked slightly relieved now that the center of attention was off him. He returned to his strumming, this time quietly singing under his breath and tapping his toes in time with the music. I approached him carefully. “Is anything fine, or do you have a specific limit to how crazy the instrumentals can be?” He looked up as if he was shocked to be spoken to. 

“Oh, um, I guess it can be anything. Just don’t expect drums.” He smiled lightly without meeting my eyes.

“Cool, thanks.” And I sauntered off back to Jon to practice the song of my choice: “Like a Virgin,” by Madonna. Which does not deserve judgment from any external parties, it’s a good song,  _ Jon. _ As I began to sing, I got the feeling of a pair of eyes on me. I glanced back at Ryan, but he was scribbling in his notebook. In fact, he had abandoned the page he had previously been scrawling lightly on and flipped several pages over, writing more carefully and deliberately. He glanced up while I was looking back at him. Our eyes met and a faint pink shade colored his face. He looked away as one does when caught staring at someone, then apparently had received inspiration to write several more lines.

\---

I thought nothing of it. As one does.


	2. invention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Developments? What do you think about the story so far? Comments appreciated but not expected. :)  
> Also, fic requests. Keep them coming! This idea was amazing.

(Ryan POV)

“I was a thing of violence. Sharp, spiky, fractured. He was all smooth lines, calm swirls and swoops and dips. Unsurprisingly, that was what drew me to him. Molten chocolate eyes like rippling tide pools. The way he almost effortlessly smiled, a lazy curve across his face. I let myself hide behind the roses, mingling with thorns and vines.” - written between the lines of the rough paper.

\---

_ You need to write, _ said my teacher. I told him that I’d think about it. Meaning absolutely not. I longed for the release that words gave me. So I submitted something, anonymously. The poem. I had no intention to share something so personal about myself outright. But I might as well be provocative. It would be nice to see them cover it up. G.R. That was the name I gave myself. George Ryan Ross. But no one would know it was me. In fact, I doubt anyone would know my name in the first place. So I sat back on my perch, on a cliff above ravenous sharks. It was in the paper all right, but I could almost feel the fervent editors coloring the page with swirling lines and dimming the fonts hoping, praying it would disappear. 

\---

_ You cannot sing, _ said my father. I told him I wouldn’t. So I didn’t. But I continued to write, strumming on my golden guitar. Gently dipping my fingers into smooth white and black.  _ Tickling the ivories. _ A phrase I had always hated. What a completely blundering group of words that when said with the right emphasis sound absolutely pretentious. So I sat, at my piano or with my guitar, notebook in hand. Flipping the slightly rough-grained paper, shifting it gently between my fingertips. The slightly bitter, smoky smell of graphite. Smudges of ink staining between the invisible lines.  _ My song is love, _ I often think bitterly.  _ Or it would be if I had the chance. _

\---

He approached me the other day, something about music, then went back to his friend. Jon, I think? They continued to talk, Jon slapping his face intermittently while he stuck his tongue out like a child. Tongue.  _ La langue. _ Also French for “language.” I stared holes into the back of his head, twirling my pencil in hand. Pressing it to the page, letting the jagged lines spiral out of control. He looked back. I held eye contact with him for a few seconds, searching, I don’t know for what. Then I found it. The sort of rare inspiration one gets looking at, say a sunset or moonlight glancing off the windowpane. I paused, pretending to be thoughtful, hoping it came across despite my racing mind. It was saccharine, reflective. I hated it. But I wanted to keep it forever.

\---

I drive to school every morning with Spencer. My best friend, my neighbor, the only person who can handle me. I got into his car cautiously, ducking as to not hit my head against the ceiling. He let out a very unexpected giggle when I closed the door behind me. I turned to him, arching my brow as high as I could. It was an acquired talent, living with Spencer. Living with each other has conditioned us, you could say, giving us the most powerful “eyebrows,” “stink-eyes,” and others of the sort. He looked back at me contorting his features as quickly as he could to cool indifference. I leaned over the armrest and caught a glance at his phone before he could jerk his arm away. 

“Jon.”

Spencer’s face was unreadable. He simply nodded, his eyes shining with meaning. Yes, it was indeed  _ that _ Jon. Yes, Spencer was falling. Slowly like a feather thrown in the air, flitting back and forth as invisible gusts of wind blow it back and forth until it finally hits the ground, swaying all the way down. Like I was falling. But I was not a feather. I was porcelain, waiting to shatter completely. Maybe I already had.

\---

I walked by him again. As he and I pressed forward, Spencer and Jon hung back. But before I neared him, I caught snippets of conversation. 

“The words, don’t you think they’re pretentious?”

“Not at all. I think they were written this way because of how they sound in your mouth. It’s the smooth flowing vowels, harsh staccato consonants.”  _ The Jabberwocky, _ perhaps? Which I attempted to parallel with my latest work,  _ Ash on the Mantel. _ He couldn’t possibly be talking about that. It wasn’t nearly as provocative as my last one in the way one would think. Not about sexuality or race or gender. But about love and love lost, the remains of loved ones’ faces crumbling above the fireplace. Ash spilled intentionally out of a porcelain urn laying cracked on the floor. 

\---

That was the risk of falling down. Falling apart. I kept my distance to delay the fall. And yet I kept falling every time his eyes met mine. Brendon.


	3. circumstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update this every few days. For sure every Saturday and Sunday. :)

(Brendon POV)

I was walking down the hallway, having been ditched by the ungrateful Jonathan Jacob Walker who was apparently disinterested with my presence. Or maybe he was just more interested in the presence of “ _Spencer.”_ Oh, the number of times I have heard him just drop the name. They were texting when Jon got into my car. I caught a lot of wink-eyed emojis, so I tried not to gag too visibly when he looked back up at me. He stuck his tongue out childishly, probably a habit he picked up after years of hanging out with me. So, he ditched me by my locker. And the guy who was walking with Spencer, Ryan?, continued to walk beside me. Anxious for some break in the monotony, I finally turned to face him as we were rounding the corner of the hallway.   
“Have you read the literary magazine?” I asked.

“Yeah.” he responded.

“You know that one poem that is always on the last page? In really tiny font?” I don’t know why I asked. Maybe I wanted to see if Ryan knew who G.R. was. Maybe I was just thinking about the latest poem too much.

“ _Ash on the Mantel?”_ he asked quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. I wonder how he knew. When I brought it up to Jon, he had just shrugged. But I guess he’s not the type to fawn over writing. Neither was I until I was introduced to G.R.

“Yeah! It was beautiful. The words he used, the sounded so beautiful together. And the feeling in the words…” I rambled, and a faint blush began to color Ryan’s face.

“How do you know it was a him?”

“Just a feeling I get.” And we went our separate ways.

\---

 _I was a thing of violence._ The words continued to ring through my head. The way they were burned into the page, defiantly against the too-loud graphics and poorly-written narratives. These words spoke to no one but me. _In der Sprache der Liebe._ Roses and thorns. Delicate but sharp like fallen porcelain.

\---

Our fingers brushed gently when I handed him the sheet music. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to dash away, withdraw his hand, but he continued to reach for the lightly crumpled paper anyway.

“Here are the guitar tabs and the piano sheet music for my song. Let me know which one you want to do. I can do either.”

He smiled, that smile you do when you recognize someone in the hallway, there, but not a full-faced grin. “Whichever one is easier for you. But I can do the guitar if you want to show off a little,” he said playfully, tilting his head towards me. A lock of wavy brown hair had untucked itself from behind his ear, falling toward his eyes. I fought a completely unexpected and irrational urge to tuck it back.

“Um, ok.”

As I made to turn away, he had already begun to writeㄧit was graceful yet sharp and jagged. All lines. I turned back to him. He closed his leather bound book slowly as he looked back up at me.

“You like to write?” Why was I trying to make conversation?

He twirled his pencil in his hand. “Yeah. Not that I’m any good.”

“You probably are, though. You have the look.” I teased. He scrunched his face up, trying to look annoyed, but his eyes were shined with a smile.

\---

I couldn’t go ten minutes without having my eyes cursed with the sight of Jon and Spencer canoodling. It was a truly harrowing experience. He started carpooling with Spencer, which at least freed me from the disgusting text sessions. It’s as they say. Love is great, but not when you’re not in it.

This also meant that Ryan had no one to drive with. I saw him walking to school one day.

“I thought you carpooled with Spencer,” I said.

“Not exactly the situation I want to be in at the moment. You know, what with Jon and Spencer _canoodling_ every five minutes,” he said.

“I get you. Hopefully, they will get to a point where they are not so horrifyingly all over each other, and more just a regular couple.”

“Yeah.” He was clutching a piece of paper tightly in his hand. It looked like the expensive kind of paper, thick and rough, cream colored. With ink scrawled neatly across the unlined page.

“Hey, I knew you were a writer!”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Are you submitting anything to the literary magazine? Deadlines are this Wednesday.”

“Um.” He looked as if he didn’t know how to respond.

“Hey, I need a carpool buddy. Would you mind? If the thing with our two best friends is going to be happening, we might as well get to know each other better.” My voice had started to shake towards the end of the sentence. I don’t know why I was nervous. I don’t know where the idea came from.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get you my address and number during choir today, but I have to go to chemistry.”

\---

 _Who could love me I am out of my mind?_ I had begun to associate a face with G.R. Honey colored eyes, wavy brown hair. I wondered who he really was.

 


	4. revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rosée: dew  
> larmes: tears

(Ryan POV)

“Honesty. Revelation. Words like blows. Red fading into purple. Stinging below the eye, soothed by a warm saline waterfall. I lean back, tilting my head. The hinges continue to squeak. An empty sound that echoes in the painful silence. I close my eyes.” - thin red ink on crumpled graph paper, later transcribed with a fountain pen onto textured cream paper.

\---

The horn sounded outside my house. I grabbed my guitar case and my too-heavy backpack stuffed with several binders of sheet music.  _ Breathe in, breathe out. _ Then push open the door and put on a smile. The one sheet of paper burned a hole in my pocket. Sure, no one would know exactly what it meant, no one had been on the receiving end of words that played on repeat in my mind.  _ You will never be enough. _ No one would probably read it. But putting it out there meant everything, to me and the few. I walked down the steps and to the car that was waiting.

“Hey, Ryan!” He leaned forward pulling the seatbelt with a smooth sound. I carefully sat down before responding.

“Hi, Brendon.”

He put the radio on and neither of us spoke for the entirety of the car ride, him dancing over-enthusiastically to songs he liked and me trying not to smile too wide. 

\---

It was there when I got back in the car. Peeking out of the armrest which also served as the car’s “junk drawer.”  _ Freedom, by G.R. _ My heart froze.

“What’s this?” I asked casually.

“Oh. It’s a page from the literary magazine. You know the guy who wrote  _ Ash on the Mantel? _ ” Did I know that guy? I honestly don’t know anymore. Sometimes I like to think, what if my life is but a dream, and I wake up in a different place with a different life? What if  _ I _ am the reflection in the mirror? I managed a weak nod.

“I don’t know, I justㄧI feel like he knows me? Does that make sense?”

\---

I told my father the other day. About who, about what I was. It was a spur of the moment decision. One that I would soon regret. It was like the entire world had frozen, and I could see his face slowly morph from indifference, his eyes begin to widen, his smile shifting into something more sinister.  _ You will never be enough. _ Then silence. The door slammed, the frame shaking, my shoulders shaking as I let the tears run slowly down my face. Painting the lines of my sorrow though I was never much of an artist. Pulling the only pen and piece of paper I could find from the bottom of my backpack. Pressing it against my knee, tracing the pen deeply so I could feel it through my jeans. Scribbling against the margin, sinking into the sensation. Like one tenses a muscle to feel the release it brings afterward. Then writing. Completely unabashedly, unplanned unlike my previous works. Crossing out lines, swirling the saline pools that fell in the crinkles with my index finger, allowing the ink to swim and spread outwards. Then ripping the paper viciously and scattering them around my room. I would rewrite my life. Pulling out my leather-bound notebook and carefully printing the letters with the utmost care.

\---

Every time he smiled, his entire face lit up. I envied those on the receiving end of his smiles. He came up to me, today, in choir. I was gently running my fingers over black and white keys. There was no music at home anymore, just a silence that permeated through the hallways. He asked me if he could practice his piece on the piano. I moved to get up, pushing the bench back slowly. He paused, perhaps hesitating, but I couldn’t fathom why.

“You don’t have to get up.” He smiled uncertainly. 

“Um, ok.” I leaned down to grab my guitar and scooted all the way across the bench toward the far left. He sat down, a light pink like the pale roses you get at weddings, not the bright red ones which look like blood, like wine, like red ink spilling across fine blue crosses. I splayed my hand across the binding of my open notebook, pressing it down so it would stay open. I strummed lightly while he played, watching him dip his head in rhythm. His eyes fluttered shut but his fingers continued to dip into the keys, reverently as if they were a thing to be worshipped. His lips were forming words, a deeper pink like carnations. I grabbed my fine-tipped pencil and began to write, carefully balancing the cherry-wood guitar on my lap.

“The air was alight. He was smooth like petals. He was bold like petals, having emerged into the daylight. Proudly showing their color.  _ Rosée sur les roses. Larmes sur les roses. _ Raindrops, dew, or tears? Running down the waxen pink, unbroken.”

I was entranced.


	5. translation

(Brendon POV)

I was seated next to him on the soft velvet of the piano bench. Running my fingers absently over the keys, a piece I knew all too well. Ryan had long since abandoned his soothing strumming and had taken up writing neatly over the pages of his leather-bound notebook. I looked up slowly, hoping not to startle him. Jon was looking at me with a funny expression, almost like  _ I told you so. _ I smiled at him and he raised his eyebrows very suggestively. I gradually lifted one hand off of the piano to raise a particular finger at him. I heard a soft laugh from beside me. Ryan was no longer writing.

“Smooth,” he said. “Real smooth.”

“I’ll have you know, Ryan, that I  _ am _ smooth.  _ Like buttah.”  _ I don’t know what came over me in that moment, what made me use that choice of words. But his entire face was suddenly transformed into a beautiful smile and he started laughing. Like actually laughing.

“What the hell was that?” He managed to get out between breaths. His laughter was infectious. It was a nice laugh: not too loud or obnoxious, just soft and simple.

As G.R. would say, I was falling, soon to hit the ground, soon to shatter.

\---

“Ryan Ross?” Jon asked with a smirk on his face.

“Ross?” I questioned. I had no idea that was Ryan’s last name.

“Spencer’s friend. The guy from choir.” His words were dripping with insinuations. I ran my hands through my hair exasperatedly.

“What about him? I’m not going to respond until you clarify whatever the hell you’re trying to say.” I could feel my face starting to turn red. I guess that was confession enough.

“I rest my case. He’s cute. Go for it.”

“Jon!” Definitely redder and redder now.

“Objectively, of course. He’s your type. There’s no one for me but the handsome Mr. Smith.” Who chose this moment to walk right down the hallway and into our conversation with no other than Ryan. Ross.

“What about me?” Spencer asked. Jon threw an arm around his shoulder and Ryan looked at me dead in the eye as if he wanted nothing more than to die immediately. 

“I was just proclaiming the undying love we have for each other in our hearts.” Jon stretched his arm out, waving it over the imaginary horizon. He leaned closer to Spencer and whispered something in his ear. Spencer paused and looked at me piercingly. Though we had become closer friends than we were before, I was still intimidated by his glare.

“Why is your face so red, Brendon?” He said, managing to keep a straight face despite the twinkle in his eye and my powerful death glare (learned from him) aimed directly at him. Ryan turned to face me as well. 

“It’s not,” I mumbled weakly, hoping that my face would cool down and return to its normal color. An evil grin overtook Spencer’s face.

“No, it definitely is. Right, Ryan?” Ryan nearly jumped after hearing his name called.

“Yeah, it’s pretty red,” he said with a smirk I didn’t know was possible. I thought, well, he seemed like a pretty shy guy. But I guess a lifetime with Spencer must have rubbed off on him. Or vice versa. “I wonder why that may be,” he said pointedly, grinning wider than I had ever seen. “I have to go to class.” Ryan said, and walked away.

I continued to watch his retreating figure. 

Spencer’s voice cut in. “I approve.” Then he and Jon dissolved into a fit of laughter, walking off together, probably to canoodle at Starbucks during their free period.

\---

_ Rosée sur les roses. Larmes sur les roses.  _ The lines continued to flash before my eyes. I brought the paper to Jon eagerly, begging him to translate the words for me, but he refused. He was with Spencer, of course. So I went to the next person I could think of.

“Hey, Ryan. Do you take French?” I asked him.

“Yeah, why?” He was just writing the last word in his leather-bound notebook. I caught out of the corner of my eye a neatly scrawled phrase with accents kissing the lines above the words. He snapped his book shut when he caught me looking, but didn’t seem too offended.

“Can you translate this for me?” I held out the literary magazine, all pages disregarded, crumpled except the one. A neatly folded page, the poem standing in the foreground, isolated. He seemed to do a double take, looking at me as if I were making some sort of joke, but the expression disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. His face was unreadable.

“ _ Rosée sur les roses. Larmes sur les roses, _ ” he read, a French accent gracing his voice lightly. I could feel my face turning pink once more. “Dew on roses. Tears on roses.” His voice was filled with an emotion I couldn’t trace.

But oh, how I wanted to.


	6. blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Il était le feu et j'étais la glace: He was fire and I was ice

(Ryan POV)

“ _Il était le feu et j'étais la glace._ He was graceful, flying forth, and uncontrollable force that warmed the air around me. I was fracturing, crystalline. I would melt. I was melting. But feeling the warmth spread through me, I felt nothing short of pure bliss. _Le feu et le glace._ ” - Alternating blue and red ink staining the margins of cream-colored paper.

\---

“I do wish you’d let me read one of your works, Ryan.” Brendon was attempting to read what I had written in my notebook, leaning his head over my collarbone.

“I really am going to push you off now, Brendon,” I said, attempting to shrug him off.

“Go ahead.” He dared me, an air of challenge in his eye. And who was I to refuse a challenge? Who was I to refuse Brendon, the very same person who had taken over my entire mind? I dipped my fingertips into his soft hair, attempting to gain leverage, to push his head away. But he just leaned in and sighed. 

“Brendon,” I repeated his name. “Would you please remove yourself from my shoulder?” He looked back at me. 

“Would you please show me something you’ve written?” His face had somewhat shifted into a much more pleading expression. His eyes shone with anticipation, swirling like pools of molten chocolate. His lips were turning upward, inquisitively and amusedly. I desisted.

\---

I carefully scanned the pages of my notebook, feeling the cream-colored paper between my fingertips. Pinching the pages even as I read. Looking for something harmless, not too revealing to show to Brendon.

“A lack of any similarity. To many, this would mean the lack of a bond between the two. But bonds built on similarity often crumble. Too easily disturbed by the anvil of disunity. It is the dissimilarity which strengthens these bonds, interlocking them as a brick wall. One that shall stand forever.” 

I folded the page, carefully creasing the pristine paper. 

\---

We were sitting on the piano bench together once again. His legs were crossed so he could balance my guitar over his knee. This time, I had begun to play the chords lightly over the keys. My legs were pressing into his. I was acutely aware of everything that was going on around me. He was strumming with an expression of deep concentration, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he attempted the complicated fingering once more. I had my pencil in my right hand, carefully held between my index and ring finger so it wouldn’t interfere with my playing. As my attention was no longer held by the alternating white and black, words began to flow into my head. I stopped playing, pressing the binding of my leather-bound notebook down over my knee. Trying not to nudge the neck of my guitar, I wrote lightly over the paper, letting the fine graphite trace over the page. Later to be inked into permanency with fine golden ink.

I looked up.

Jon was looking back at me with great interest. He raised his eyebrow. A tendency he no doubt picked up after spending quite some time with Spencer. It didn’t take long for the idiosyncrasies to set in, and it wasn’t hard to notice. Spencer had even taken in Brendon, training him in the ways of snark. I looked back with as much intensity. He was holding something in his hand, no, waving it. The literary magazine.

“Spencer told me,” he mouthed. I looked at Brendon, for a split-second, then back at Jon, who shook his head. That was answer enough. He held his hands out in a poorly shaped heart and stretched his arms away from his face. “Click.” As if he were taking a picture. What a sorry picture it would be, one hopelessly pining, the other in his own world, lost in the momentㅡa state of dreamless dreams.

\---

I stretched my fingers, allowing myself the release of the sudden stretch of muscles. The next person came onstage, prepared to sing another completely unremarkable tune. There was a difference between being able to carry a tune and being able to really sing, which was clearly apparent in this moment. I put my guitar down and walked back to the piano for another song. I was greatly out of practice, the frightening silence at my house too strong to overwhelm. The tension was still between us, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the known. I spoke up before, and look where it got me. My fingers dared to reach for the keys, but the oppressive quiet blinked the sound away.

He finally took the stage, carrying my guitar in his hands. He handed the instrument to me, letting our fingers brush. The contact held until he was sure I was fully holding it, and even then until he had taken his seat on the bench. I got up, pulling a suede stool from the corner until I was seated across from him. He looked into my eyes, posing a question.  _ Are you ready?  _ Always. I began strumming, continuing to lose myself in the molten chocolate in his eyes. And he began to sing. The sweetest sound I had ever heard, the passion thrumming through his voice, shining in his face, turning through the white and black keys like there was nothing more important. 

And there wasn’t.

 


	7. recognition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I didn't update until now! I was in New York, and I finally saw The Book of Mormon. (which means mcpriceley is officially an option for future fics (: ) I hope you enjoyed this!

(Brendon POV)

He stopped me before I reached to unlock the car door, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. I froze instantly. I looked back to meet his eyes, and he was biting his lip anxiously. 

“Ry?” I whispered hesitantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a smile tugging across his face. “You wanted to read something of mine? I found one that you might like.” I slowly removed my hand from the door handle. He uncurled his fingers and moved to reach for his bag, stretching his back to grab the straps. I tried not to stare too noticeably, or at least to look like I wasn’t doing by the time he sat back up. He pulled the bag onto his lap and ruffled through it with his fingers clad in worn fingerless gloves. He finally pulled the warm brown leather-bound notebook from one of the deeper pockets. With trembling fingers, he carefully slipped off the elastic closure.

“Do you want me,” I began, reaching toward his hand, unsure whether to grab it or retract my hand, leaving me with my hand remaining outstretched midair. He shook his head and took a deep breath, steadying himself. Now seemingly much calmer, he leafed through the pages of cream-colored paper, paper that appeared incredibly thick, expensive, high-quality. He paused after reaching each page, running the paper between his fingers and scanning the words almost ingrained into the paper. Finally, he reached a page that had been dog-eared several times, the creases over-lapping, crossing, some parallel. He pressed the spine of the book down with the heel of his palm before handing me the book. I held it with both hands, one on either side. 

“Wait,” I said, reaching into my backpack to pull out my glasses. I slid them onto my face and turned the attention to the jagged scrawls of black ink. I heard an almost strangled sound beside me, something between a laugh and a sob. Ryan had his hands cupped over his mouth, eyes glittering with humor. 

“Something funny?” I teased.

“Um, no, not at all! Since when do you wear glasses, though?”

“Since forever!” I turned to face him more closely, leaning over the armrest between us. “Do you not like them?” His face was slowly turning redder and redder with each word I uttered.

“No, no, no!” he stuttered. “I like them. They suit you. They look nice. I mean—” He continued to ramble until I silenced him.

“Ryan. I’m just kidding.”

“Just read,” he grumbled adorably. I turned back to the page I was holding between my fingers. And back at Ryan, who was now peeking between his fingers at me. It was my turn to make a rather undignified noise.

“Ryan! What are you doing?” 

“I want to see what you think about it. But I also get super anxious when people read my stuff.”

“So do you not want me to read it? Because I would never want to do something that would make you uncomfortable.” I assured him.

“No, no, go ahead, I’ll be fine,” and he returned to his hiding place behind his gloved fingers.

“If you say so,” I smirked and turned back to the page for what I hoped (or not-so-hoped) would be the last time. 

_ A lack of any similarity. To many, this would mean the lack of a bond between the two. But bonds built on similarity often crumble. Too easily disturbed by the anvil of disunity. It is the dissimilarity which strengthens these bonds, interlocking them as a brick wall. One that shall stand forever. _

I read the words once. I read them again. Something was itching at the back of my mind. Perhaps it was the now familiarity I had begun to associate with everything Ryan. Or perhaps it was the words used. Something about the structure, the way they fit together, that was awfully familiar. Something about the raw emotion in something that seemed so astoundingly icy, withdrawn, at first drew me in. Which was surprising to me, because it was rare that I could pick up on patterns like this. I slowly looked back up at Ryan. Who was pressing his fingertips to his palms, his knuckles to his face in a display of almost comic anxiety.

“So, what did you think?” he managed to stutter out. I had a hard time finding my voice. It was as if I were looking at an entirely different person than I was less than five minutes ago.

“G.R.?” I whispered, looking away from his face.

“Yeah,” he said back with almost as much hesitancy and intensity. And I simply flung my arms around his shoulders. He relaxed into my embrace, and I soon found myself pressed into the crook of his neck while he ran his fingers through my hair. “How did you know?” the vibrations of his voice spread through my scalp.

“I know you, G.R. And I want to continue to get to know you.”

“I know you’re probably wondering,” he started. “It’s George Ryan Ross the Third.” 

 

I stifled my giggles into his collar bone, feeling his own throughout my body.

 


End file.
